She looked at her watch. Quarter to six. She slipped out of the room and walked along the corridor, getting used to the sensation of high heels again. She’d been in flip-flops and trainers for so long, it felt alien. It was hard to believe that she used to live in stilettos. She came down the stairs to the hallway. Victoria was standing at the reception desk, fiddling for the millionth time with the huge vase of birds of paradise. She looked so self-assured, as if she belonged here as mistress of the house, the arbiter of good taste in navy and white. For a moment, Lisa panicked. In contrast to Victoria she felt as if she was dressed for a hen party. She was about to rush back to her room and change, when Victoria looked up and spotted her. Her eyes widened in surprise.
‘Lisa. You look absolutely stunning!’
Lisa hesitated, her hand on the banister.
‘You don’t think it’s too much?’
‘God, no. You look completely gorgeous. Utterly edible. And, anyway, who cares? This is your night.’
Victoria rushed over to the bottom of the staircase as Lisa walked down the last few stairs self-consciously.
‘That dress is divine. You look like a goddess.’
‘You look lovely too.’ A little over-awed by the compliments, Lisa felt obliged to return them. But Victoria didn’t seem to need reassurance. She took Lisa by both hands as she reached the bottom of the stairs.
‘This place is going to be fantastic. You know that, don’t you?’
‘I hope so.’
‘You and George have got it absolutely right. It’s going to be a massive success. And I just want to say…’
For a moment, Victoria looked rather tearful.
‘I really appreciate how good you’ve been to me and Mimi. There aren’t many women who would have put up with the situation.’
The two women embraced. As she hugged Victoria, Lisa realized that she had become almost fond of her. That she might actually miss her. That she almost, but not quite, thought of her as a friend.
George came out of the office and into the hallway and stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of Lisa and Victoria in each other’s arms at the bottom of the stairs. His heart was in his mouth as he looked at the pair of them. Lisa, shimmering, radiant and voluptuous. Victoria, elegant, aloof and serene.
Justin loped in through the front door, wearing rolled-up jeans, a white Aertex and espadrilles. Lisa giggled.
‘Glad to see you’ve made an effort, Justin,’ she teased, knowing he wouldn’t be offended. He was known for underdressing.
‘Well,’ he said cheerfully. ‘This is it. The moment of truth. And by the way, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.’
A tall figure stepped into the hall behind him, with a breathtaking cloud of blond ringlets, golden skin and a cherubic mouth.
‘This is Joel. He’s been teaching me to surf,’ said Justin lightly, taking Joel’s arm.
‘Hi, guys,’ said Joel, revealing his Antipodean origins and a row of pearly white teeth.
‘Hi,’ the three of them chorused back, as Justin smiled proudly, giving the faintest of winks as he met Victoria’s astonished gaze.
*
At the Mariscombe Hotel, Molly was doing the late-afternoon shift. Tidying the rooms and turning down the beds; making them again if necessary because guests often had an afternoon nap. Emptying the bins, wiping the basins and loos, polishing the taps. She was just puffing up the pillows when her mobile phone vibrated in the pocket of her overall. Staff weren’t supposed to have their mobiles with them while they worked, but Molly kept hers on in case there was a problem with Alfie. She pulled it out, frowning. It was number withheld.
‘Hello?’ she said cautiously.
‘Molly?’ The voice was rough. ‘It’s Cal.’
Cal. Cal was one of her sister’s circle of friends. He was rough, but kind, a big, ugly brute of a man with dodgy connections and a heart of gold. He had a soft spot for Molly, and she knew that if she had ever wanted to succumb to his advances he would look after her and Alfie. But Cal wasn’t her type. Not that she had a type…
‘What do you want?’ She didn’t mean to sound brusque, but she prayed he wasn’t going to try and ask her out. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings.
‘I’ve had a tip-off. From a mate. The DS are going to raid your place.’
‘DS?’ For a moment Molly wasn’t with him.
‘The Drug Squad. They reckon Zen might be stashing his gear there.’
‘Gear?’ Molly realized she sounded stupid as soon as she said it. Of course Zen was a dealer. Not just a user. Why hadn’t she clocked it before? It would explain the cash Siobhan sometimes flashed around, why she never felt the need to get a proper job but somehow always had the latest skirt, the latest boots, the latest phone.
‘Get yourself and Alfie out of there, love.’ Cal’s tone was urgent. ‘If they find any stuff, it might mean they’ll take the baby off you.’
‘How do you know all this?’ Again, Molly knew she sounded sharp but she was frightened.
‘Contacts. And for Christ’s sake don’t tell anyone I told you, or I’ll be found in the bottom of the harbour. Bleeding fish food.’
‘Thanks, Cal.’
But the phone was already dead. Molly thrust it back into her pocket with trembling hands. She had to get home. She tore along the corridor and down the stairs, two at a time, no time to wait for the lift. Hannah was at the reception desk. She looked up, startled, as Molly pounded across the hall, wild-eyed.
‘Hannah – I’ve got to go. It’s an emergency. Can you get someone to do my rooms for me?’
‘Sure. Molly – what’s happened?’
‘Family crisis.’ Molly pulled off her overall and as good as threw it at a speechless Hannah. Then she flew out of the door, fumbling for her purse to see if she’d got enough for a taxi. By the time the bloody bus got to Tawcombe the whole place could have been turned over. She had a fiver and some change. Probably just enough. She felt panic rise up in her chest. Stay calm, she told herself as she pulled open the door of the taxi at the front of the rank and hurled herself into the front seat.
‘Uffculme Road, Tawcombe, please. And can you be as quick as you can. My baby…’ She trailed off, not sure what to say. ‘My baby’s ill,’ she finished definitely, praying that it wasn’t tempting fate to lie like this. But it seemed to do the trick, as the driver fired up the engine and pulled away, scattering disgruntled tourists in his wake.
It was five to six. Everyone was quiet with nerves. A waiter passed through carrying a tray loaded with gleaming glasses, a waitress following in his wake with two jugs; the only sound was the clinking of the ice cubes. As they watched anxiously out of the window, a car pulled in, cautiously at first, then commandeered a parking space by the front door. A bearded man emerged, scanning the front of the hotel curiously before making his way in through the front door.
He held out his invitation.
‘Christopher Tate. From the Tourist Office?’
For a moment there was silence as everyone stared. Then George stepped forward, holding out a welcoming hand with a broad smile.
‘Welcome to The Rocks.’
16
As the taxi pulled up outside her house, Molly fought back tears, scrabbling for the fare.
‘Seven pounds eighty, love.’
Shit. She didn’t have enough. She thrust her fiver at him, choking back a sob as she shook out her change.
‘Hang on…’
‘It’s all right, love.’ The taxi driver could see she was distraught. ‘You go and find your little one.’
Molly didn’t have time to be grateful. She jumped out of the car, slammed the door and ran up the steps. She felt sure she was in time. If anything had happened, if there had been a raid, the pavements would be full of rubberneckers gawping at someone else’s misfortune. Raids and arrests were what counted as street entertainment in Tawcombe.
The drawing room, the dining room and the reception area of The Rocks were bur
sting at the seams. Waiters and waitresses glided amongst the guests, bearing oversized white platters stuffed with tantalizing nibbles inspired by the seaside – scallops wrapped in bacon, tiny Devon pasties filled with lamb and potato, coriander-flecked crab cakes, crispy goujons of sole served with big fat chips studded with sea salt for dipping into glistening pools of aioli, mini cups of chowder. Greedy hands reached out repeatedly and lips were licked as the delicious morsels were washed down with a never-ending supply of cocktails and champagne. The walls reverberated with chat and laughter, against a background of specially chosen music: ‘Here Comes the Summer’ by the Undertones, ‘Echo Beach’ by Martha and the Muffins, ‘Rock Lobster’ by the B52s – sounds redolent of summer, the seaside, holidays, sunshine.
‘Much as I hate to admit it,’ said Justin, lounging in the door of the French windows, ‘you know how to throw a good party.’
Victoria smiled.
‘I know. And by the way, congratulations.’
Justin looked momentarily sheepish.
‘I decided it was hypocritical of me to slag you off, when I wasn’t being honest with anyone either. You always were too observant for your own good.’
Victoria glanced over at Joel, who was deep in conversation with a dark-haired man in a blue and white shirt.
‘Well, I must say he’s completely divine. I wish I’d seen him first.’
‘You’re not his type, darling.’
‘He would be by the time I’d finished with him,’ Victoria twinkled, and wound an arm round Justin’s scrawny neck. ‘Truce?’
Justin kissed her cheek.
‘Truce.’
Victoria looked thoughtfully back over to Joel.
‘Who’s he talking to?’
‘That’s the legendary Bruno Thorne,’ said Justin. ‘But I’m not worried. He’s a hundred per cent heterosexual.’
‘Good,’ replied Victoria.
She plucked two full glasses of champagne off the tray of a passing waiter and glided across the room until she reached Bruno and Joel.
‘Justin’s looking for you, darling,’ she purred to Joel, then turned to Bruno with a dazzling smile. ‘And I’d like to introduce myself. I’m Victoria Snow.’
And with that, she handed him a glass of champagne.
Molly unlocked the door to her flat cautiously, almost bracing herself to be pounced on by uniformed officers. Inside it was eerily silent. Perhaps they’d taken Alfie to the park? But no…
She spotted Siobhan immediately, crashed out on the floor. Zen was sprawled on the sofa. For an awful moment she thought they were dead. But then the acrid scent reached her nostrils and she realized they were just out of it. God knows what they’d been doing. Molly wasn’t interested in drugs, but she sensed this wasn’t just a recreational mid-afternoon spliff. The air hung heavy with not just decadence but desperation. These two had reached the end of the line.
Hot fear pooled in her stomach as she ran past them, to be replaced by sweet relief as she saw Alfie fast asleep in his cot. How the hell could her own sister do this? Be more worried about her own gratification than the welfare of her nephew? Molly knew Siobhan was a waster, but she’d thought she could trust her to look after Alfie. But then, under the influence of Zen and whatever it was they’d been smoking… Molly knew enough about drugs to know they induced self-absorption and a total disregard for anyone else’s needs.
She picked Alfie up carefully so as not to wake him, and cuddled him to her. He snuggled into her shoulder sleepily. Her heart contracted simultaneously with love and fear. What the hell was she supposed to do now? She knew she had to get out because of Cal’s warning – she couldn’t risk it being an empty threat or a false alarm.
The only person she could think of to turn to was Hannah. Hannah had always been kind to her; Hannah had common sense too. And although it would be risky bringing Alfie to the hotel, Molly was desperate. She’d think of a good cover-up. No one would suspect the truth, after all, as it was too far-fetched.
Swiftly she packed up their things: nappies and babygros and a packet of wipes, jeans, underwear and a couple of tops – stuffing them all into a big carrier bag with sturdy handles.
Then she stood in the middle of her room, her heart hammering. Should she wake up Siobhan and Zen, warn them? Siobhan was her sister. She didn’t want to see her banged up. Then she remembered that Siobhan had been quite happy to neglect Alfie. The fact that Molly had been able to sneak in the way she had proved that anything could have happened and the two of them would have been oblivious. If they got done, that was their problem. She had to look after herself first.
She pulled Alfie’s blanket out of the cot and wrapped it round him. It was a warm evening, but she didn’t want to disturb him by going out into the fresh air. If she kept him wrapped up, he would stay asleep. As she tiptoed out of the flat, she saw Zen’s denim jacket slung over the arm of the settee. His wallet was poking out of the pocket.
Should she?
Molly had never stolen anything ever in her life. But as she stood there, she reasoned that whatever lay in Zen’s wallet was ill-gotten gains. And she thought of all the times she’d cooked them tea, or gone to get chips, without any thanks or ever being repaid. Carefully she laid down her bag, pulled out the wallet, whipped out the wad of cash and hastily replaced it – a difficult manoeuvre with a heavy toddler in her arms, but she was used to doing things with one hand.
Shit – Alfie was waking up, disturbed by the movement.
‘Mumma?’
Please don’t let them wake, she thought desperately. She rammed the cash in her pocket, picked up the bag and left. By some miracle, the cab driver who had dropped her off earlier was making his way back down the other side of the street. She waved at him frantically.
‘I’ve got enough money to pay you now.’ She bent in through the driver’s window as he slowed down. ‘Can you take me back to Mariscombe?’
*
Halfway through the evening, there were groans of delight as 99s were handed out; cornets filled with the super-sweet swirl of soft ice cream garnished with a Flake. It was a salutary reminder, thought George, of how clever Victoria was, playing on nostalgia to seduce her audience. He looked for her amongst the crowds, wanting to thank her. The party was a resounding success, and he doubted he could have pulled it off. She had done her homework on the guest list, researching who the local bigwigs were on the council and the tourist board, sniffing out celebrities who had second homes nearby, as well as local artists and musicians. And, of course, the press. Added to which, she’d asked local restaurateurs and hoteliers – anyone who might have felt threatened by their opening – so they could see exactly what they were up against and therefore prevent idle speculation. And Leonard Carrington, the biggest mouth in Mariscombe. It made for an eclectic mix that, had she not been so good at her job, might have found it hard to gel. But George had a feeling they weren’t going to get rid of this crowd before midnight.
She was standing by the window, deep in conversation with a striking-looking man with dark curls. From her gesticulations, they seemed to be talking about the hotel, but the way their eyes were locked, the way they each had a smile playing around their lips, there was obviously some subtext going on. George worked out, via a process of elimination, that this must be Bruno Thorne. For some reason, he felt a hideous curdling in his stomach; a sensation that was both icy cold and searingly hot, that bubbled up and hit him in the back of the throat. He thought for a moment that he was about to be sick, then realized that what he was feeling was jealousy, that the liquid in his gullet was deep green and poisonous.
They looked fabulous together. She was shimmering and golden and delicate; he was dark and strong and magnetic. Of course they would make a fairy-tale couple. He had wealth and standing; she talent and beauty. He would be able to give her opportunities. George could just imagine her leaping on to the infamous helicopter, the two of them flying off somewhere. The jetset lifestyle.
Ge
orge tried to tell himself that at least that would be the end of his problems, that he wouldn’t need to feel guilty any more. Then he plucked another Sea Breeze from the tray of a passing waitress and knocked it back.
Lisa came through into the drawing room from the hall, then stopped in her tracks. Framed against the setting sun were Bruno’s dark head and Victoria’s golden one, as he whispered something in her ear. She laughed in response, and a flash of complicity sparked between them. No one who saw them could fail to notice the attraction. The air round them was pulsating with sexual tension.
Lisa felt her throat tighten inexplicably. Her mouth felt dry; she couldn’t swallow. What was the matter with her? She grabbed a glass from a passing waiter and gulped thirstily.
Hannah had just finished packing her suitcase. She’d only packed comfy clothes, because she planned to go and stay on her parents’ farm after the operation in order to recuperate. She’d thought about it long and hard. She could have checked in somewhere, put herself in isolation for a week while the bruises faded. But she didn’t see the point in forking out when she had a perfectly good bedroom at home, and fresh air and her mum’s home cooking.
Her parents would be shocked at first, she knew that. She’d decided not to tell them about the operation beforehand, because she was afraid they would be upset, and would ask her so many bewildered questions that she might bottle out. After all, she knew that they loved her unconditionally, that when they looked at her they saw a loving daughter, and didn’t notice her nose. And if they knew the truth about the misery she’d learned to hide, the anguish, they would be devastated. And guilty.
Her mother was the least vain person she knew. She had been forty-two when she had Hannah, and thus well into her fifties by the time Hannah became aware of her own looks. By which time her mother’s hair was thick, wiry and iron grey, her complexion ruddy from being outside, her figure bulky from a lifetime of cooked breakfasts, meat and two veg and proper puddings, full-fat milk and clotted cream. Hannah didn’t think she bothered to look in a mirror from one day to the next, which was why she would be so perplexed, so horrified, at the thought of her own daughter having plastic surgery.
Love on the Rocks Page 33